Campfire Stories
by terminallypretty
Summary: In the solemn hours of the night, a world-weary pirate and an irrepressible orphan girl come together to share the dark.
1. First Watch

The glow of dying embers bathed the campsite in warm, muted light. The other members of Balthier's party were sleeping around the outer edge of the fire, sprawled haphazardly, curled in on themselves, or tangled in bedrolls to protect from the chill of the night air. And...one other, not sleeping at all.

Vaan's steady rumble of a snore would have warded off all but the most determined of predators, but nonetheless, it was Balthier's turn to keep watch. And so he sat upon a mossy boulder, surveying the flat landscape of the Tchita Uplands, occasionally tossing an extra branch upon the dying fire to extend its life.

Ashe twisted fretfully beneath her blanket, her brow drawn into a frown. Basch lay silent and still near her, the hilt of his sword clenched in his fist even in sleep, lest an enemy take him unawares. Fran curled on her side, one ear relaxed in sleep and curled towards her forehead. Vaan lay splayed upon his back, snoring peacefully. And Penelo...Penelo was gazing up at the night sky, one arm resting over her stomach and the other aimed up with her fingers outstretched as though she thought she might catch a star.

"You ought to sleep," Balthier murmured low, though he was sure none of the others would wake at the sound of his voice if even Vaan's racket failed to stir them. "We're trying for the Phon Coast tomorrow."

"How could I sleep?" Penelo whispered back. "There's so many stars tonight. Have you ever seen so many?"

Balthier squinted at the sky, but the inky black night looked the same to him as it always had. "I've never had reason to count them, so I couldn't say. Surely you've seen stars before."

She shrugged, a disarmingly elegant rise and fall of her shoulders that seemed strangely incongruous with what he knew of her. A street urchin, an errand girl, and, more recently, a thief when the need struck. How had she acquired that fluid grace?

"Until a month ago, I'd never left Rabanastre. The city lights drown out most of the stars, I guess. I've never seen them like this - the sky's thick with them." He heard the wonder in her voice, and it made him wish, suddenly, that he could see the stars through her eyes, experience the magnitude of fascination that she did.

"You'd never left Rabanstre?" He seized on that, perplexed that someone could live the entirety of their life never having left the city they were born to.

"No," she murmured. "Even when my parents were alive, we weren't rich. Traveling generally costs money. It wasn't the sort of expense we could afford." A wistful sigh followed. "So I'd never even been out of the city walls until Vaan went missing while running an errand for Dalan. The walls were for safety, and I knew that, but I resented it. But even the walls didn't keep out the Imperial army. Those same walls that kept me in couldn't keep invaders out, so what were they really good for? They weren't walls, they were just a cage providing the illusion of safety."

"Safety itself is an illusion," Balthier countered. "A cage could never provide safety against a truly determined enemy. People like illusions and the sense of security they provide. Illusions mean one need never worry for their own safety."

"_I_ don't like them." She shifted to her side, turning her attention to him. "I spent my whole life inside those walls. I spent my childhood trying to catch glimpses of the stars. And now that I can finally see them, I don't ever want to go back to that cage. I know every inch of Rabanastre, every alley, every shop, every merchant. But I don't want to languish away in my tiny corner of the world, never having seen what's beyond it." She flopped onto her back again, spreading her arms wide. "Haven't you ever just _looked_ at the stars, Balthier? Haven't you ever just looked and..and wondered? There could be another world out there - hundreds of them, maybe - like ours. Worlds we've never seen, never dreamed of."

The fire hissed and crackled, jerking Balthier out of his reverie - because for a moment there, he'd been staring at the sky, wondering like she did. And for just a moment, he, too, had seen the glittering stars full of mysteries and possibilities. But now they were ordinary again, just tiny flecks of gilt across the velvety black night sky. He reached down, gathered a few branches, and tossed them onto the fire. The hungry flames licked upwards, devouring, setting glowing bits of ash adrift in the air.

"I think perhaps you'd better sleep," he said finally. "If you're to be at your best tomorrow, you'll need rest. And I'm to wake Vaan for his watch soon. There will be opportunities to consider the stars after we reinstate her highness." He nodded to indicate Ashe, now stretched out on her stomach, head pillowed on her folded arms.

Neither of them voiced the ever-present knowledge that each day could be their last, that in the face of such incredibly daunting odds, their chances of success dwindled by the day and these quiet hours of night might very well be all they'd ever have.

Penelo sighed heavily. "You're right. Of course. Good night, Balthier." She shifted onto her side, her back to him, curling up tightly. But her right hand remained outstretched toward the horizon, where the moon hung low in the sky, holding court encircled by a glistening retinue of stars.

Slowly her breathing grew deep and even. And instead of waking Vaan for his shift, Balthier kept watch over the terrain and party until moonset, until the hazy pink rays of dawn tinted the horizon...but mostly he kept watch over Penelo.


	2. Second Watch

Dusk fell swiftly in this part of Ivalice, it seemed. The lilac hues cast upon the clouds by the setting sun faded into the night that settled over the region, and one by one, stars crept out of hiding to decorate the sky. They hadn't made the Phon Coast as planned, having been waylaid by more than one pack of hungry coeurls.

It hadn't helped, too, that Penelo had lagged behind most of the journey, which had irritated Balthier excessively. No doubt a few hours of sleep had not been enough to set her to rights, and she'd found herself too tired to be at her best. As he'd warned she might. Circumstances being what they were, he could not manage to dredge up any sympathy for her plight, not even considering that she, Basch, and Ashe were to take watch tonight.

Their group trudged into a clearing near the river that snaked through the Uplands to the Phon Coast. Atop a small rise, it would be a prime place to rest for the night - beasts could be seen approaching from a distance, the river was close and convenient for bathing, but not so close for the sound of the water to drown out that of an approaching enemy.

Basch, too, had clearly considered these things, for he dropped his sack and bedroll, saying simply, "We stop here for the night."

Penelo's sigh of relief was echoed by more than one. Still, she brushed her bangs from her face and said, "I'll go for fire wood."

Fran stopped her with a hand on the shoulder. "You will rest. I shall fetch the wood." Her hand squeezed Penelo's shoulder almost imperceptibly, as if delivering a secret message. A moment's hesitation - then Penelo gave a brief nod, acquiescing to Fran's pronouncement. She busied herself with laying out her bedroll, arranging her small sack of belongings to form a makeshift pillow beneath it.

"I'm tired of eating biscuits," Vaan said. "Balthier, let's go see if we can catch some real food. I've seen some rabbits around here."

Balthier did find the prospect of an actual meal enticing, so he relieved himself of his own bedroll and said, "Lead the way, then." But he tarried just a bit behind Vaan, looking over his shoulder in time to catch Penelo collapsing wearily onto her bedroll.

* * *

It was dark by the time Balthier and Vaan returned, arms laden with the small game that was plentiful in the area. Basch, Ashe, and Fran were gathered around the fire, having already set up a spit constructed of branches upon which to roast whatever Vaan and Balthier had managed to bag. Penelo was tucked under her blanket, back to the fire, clearly asleep. Balthier moved to rouse her, but Fran's voice stopped him.

"Leave her be. We shall wake her once the food is prepared."

Ashe shuddered as Vaan efficiently cleaned their kills, and Balthier couldn't blame her. He'd come from a life of privilege and had rarely stopped to consider the processes between the catching of the game and its presentation on the dinner table.

Vaan tossed the cleaned meats to Basch, who spitted them and stuck them over the blazing fire. The meat sizzled and the fat melted down, sizzling as it dripped into the fire beneath. Soon enough, the scent of cooking food filled the small campsite, and Penelo stirred beneath her blankets.

Vaan sliced a good chunk of meat off with his dagger, and moved to where Penelo lay to dangle it over her nose.

"Wake up, Pen. We've got food. Real food!"

Penelo groaned her displeasure at having been woken, but she lifted herself into a sitting position, narrowly avoiding the hunk of roasted rabbit hitting her on the head. She accepted the offering with a murmur of thanks, and picked daintily at her food in silence.

In fact, silence reigned over the party, as they had gone too long on hard biscuits and dried meats. No one had the time or inclination for words as they passed cuts of meat around, devouring all that their stomachs would hold.

Penelo surrendered first. She stood, examining her hands. "I'm going to go wash up at the river."

Balthier lifted his head from his meal long enough to say, "You ought to take someone with you."

But she was already headed out of camp, disappearing into the darkness. "I'll be fine," she tossed over her shoulder. "I'll be within shouting distance, I promise."

Some time later, Basch cleaned up the remnants of their dinner, burying the bones a distance from the camp. Penelo still had not returned, and Balthier was growing concerned.

"We ought to go find her," he found himself saying aloud as he poured water from his canteen into his hands to clean them of the aftereffects of his meal.

Ashe tilted her head to the side, regarding him curiously. "The river is less than a hundred feet away," she said. "Surely if something had happened, she would have called out."

"Penelo can handle herself," Vaan assured him. "We grew up on the streets. She's not helpless."

"I didn't intend to insinuate she was," Balthier replied. "But this is not _the streets_, this is the wilderness, the Tchita Uplands, and for a girl who has never ventured beyond Rabanastre, it can be treacherous."

"Be that as it may," Ashe said carefully, "sometimes a girl merely needs a bit of privacy, of which there has been precious little of late."

Balthier had no argument for that, so he subsided into a vaguely sulky silence. After a moment, Fran, who had been observing Balthier quietly, rose.

"I shall go in search of Penelo," she said. "Our canteens shall require refilling, besides." She collected them, and set off into the night towards the river.

By the time they returned, Balthier, Basch, and Vaan had already settled into their bedrolls, and Ashe had taken up first watch. Fran shooed Penelo towards her bedroll, and, after a whispered conversation that was too low for Balthier to hear, Penelo went. Satisfied that all members of their party were present and accounted for, Balthier settled onto his back and slept.

* * *

In the early hours of the morning, Balthier awoke to an unfamiliar sound. Years of piracy had trained him to react instinctively to such noises, and he reached for his gun. He shot up, pulling back the hammer, the metallic sound defeaning in the still of the night.

A gasp from a few feet away. He turned toward the sound, aiming his gun at...Penelo, awake for her watch, blue eyes wide and surprised.

A low, nervous laugh bubbled out of her. "D'you think you might _not_ shoot me, please?" But her eyes slid away, as if she had been caught at something shameful.

He set down his weapon, his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"What are you up to?" he asked.

"Nothing. Nothing!" She tugged her pant leg down, squirming like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. "It's my watch; that's why I'm up."

"You are a _terrible_ liar," he said dismissively, rising. He trudged over to where Penelo sat, crouched down beside her, and hiked the right leg of her pants up to her knee. A wide bandage stretched around her calf, soaked through with blood. His eyes shot to her face, which was averted, though her cheeks were flushed with angry color, her mouth drawn into a thin line.

"Are you finished?" she asked tightly.

And suddenly, he was as angry as she was, angry that he had not known, angry that today he had thought poorly of her when in reality her lethargy hadn't been lethargy at all - it had been pain.

"No," he snapped back at her. He felt for the edge of the bandage, peeling it back slowly, wincing as it stuck, pulling at her injured flesh. He glanced at her face to see if he had hurt her, but her chin was tilted up stubbornly, eyes blazing with anger. Still, she let him draw back the bandage, exposing the injury. Two long, jagged rends in her flesh, deep, and still welling blood - although he supposed it could be due to his not entirely gentle handling. He stroked his thumb across the downy softness of her skin, where the flesh was smooth and unmarred.

"One of the coeurls?" he asked.

Her reply was a short nod, more a jerk of her head than anything.

"I didn't see you bandage it."

"No one pays very much attention to me," she said. "It was easy. I changed the bandage at the river this evening, but it's still bleeding."

"It wants stitching," he said. "The wounds are too deep."

"I seem to have left my needle and thread back in Rabanastre," she said, exasperated.

"Well, then, I suppose it's a good thing I've got mine in my bag," he shot back. At her sly look, he huffed, "I've had to sew myself up on more than one occasion - being a pirate is not without its risks."

He stalked across the campsite, retrieving his bag, fishing through it until he found the items he was looking for. As he sterilized the needle in the fire, he asked, "Why didn't you tell anyone you'd been injured?"

She shrugged. "What good would it have done? We still have to make the Phon Coast as soon as possible. I was already slowing us down." As an afterthought, she added, "Fran knew. She's been looking out for me today. I didn't tell her, but...she said she could smell the blood."

At least that explained Fran's uncharacteristic coddling. Gods knew Fran had never coddled _him_.

"We would have slowed our pace for you," he chided.

"Blast you, we can't _afford_ to slow down," she bared her teeth in aggravation. "Every delay is one more day Dalmasca is stuck under Archades' thumb."

He was, frankly, surprised at her determination. So he distracted her from her anger, deftly threading the needle, then holding it out to her. "Would you be more comfortable doing it yourself?"

She shuddered. "No. Please. I can't do it myself."

"It's going to hurt. Do you need something to bite down on? Screaming would wake the others as well as give away our location."

"I'll be fine," she said, and her tone suggested annoyance, as if she thought he considered her weak.

When he put the needle to her flesh and pushed it through, he flinched - but she did not. As quickly and carefully as possible, he stitched her wounds closed, hoping that the process didn't cause too much pain. By the time he knotted and cut the last thread, she was pale and sweating, but she hadn't made a sound. He was sweating, as well. It had actually mattered to him whether or not he was causing her pain, and he found that...baffling.

He unscrewed the lid of his canteen and poured a liberal amount of water over the wounds, washing away the blood. She reached for her bag, pulling out a length of clean bandage, and winding it around her calf. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he tipped back the canteen and swallowed a good half of the remaining water, then offered the rest to her. She took it gratefully, and he noticed her fingers trembled as she drank.

"You ought to have told someone," he repeated. "Vaan. He's your friend. If not the rest of us, then him, surely."

She shook her head. "He would've worried. Worry is weakness. Weakness gets you killed. It gets exploited. We're safer if no one else knows. Besides, Vaan rushes into things. He'd get us all killed trying to protect me. He's got the best of intentions, but his actions are usually a few steps ahead of his good sense."

Balthier sighed. "While I do not disagree with your judgment of Vaan, wherever did you get a ridiculous notion like that? Worry is inevitable."

"Not," she said, "if you grew up as I did. When everthing you love is taken from you, you learn not to care. If you care about something, it will be used against you. The Imperials taught me that. I have no family. I have no home. I have nothing but the clothes on my back and the belongings in my bag. Why do you think it was so easy to leave Rabanastre?"

She took another long drink from the canteen, then tugged the leg of her pants back down over the bandage. "I thought I was coming along on this mission for Vaan, to keep him out of trouble, like I promised Reks I would. I really thought it was noble, heroic even. But the truth is, it's entirely selfish. In Rabanastre, I was adrift. Not really alive, just...surviving. And only barely that."

"Out here," she continued, the hand holding the canteen gesturing in a wide arc, "I am anchored. I have a purpose. I couldn't save my family or Vaan's, but maybe I can help save someone else's. Maybe, if we succeed, somewhere in Rabanastre there's a little girl who will still have her family." Her voice broke, and she dropped her head onto her folded arms, but her lips curved into a bitter smile. "And if we don't succeed...well, then, who is going to mourn?"

And Balthier was at a loss for words, because she was right. If they failed, there was no one to mourn an orphan girl from Rabanastre.

And still, he surprised himself by saying, "I would."

A tiny flutter of laughter. "But if we fail, you'll be dead, too."

He shrugged. "I've been dead inside for years." He tried to infuse a dry humor into the words, but they came out flat and honest instead.

"Adrift?"

"I suppose."

She reached over and patted his knee, a smile wise beyond her tender years etched upon her lips. "Find your anchor, Balthier."

And suddenly he was the tiniest bit afraid that he just had.


	3. Third Watch

The heat of the day was overwhelming. Balthier's hair was plastered to his head, dripping sweat down the back of his neck. The rest of the party fared little better. Even Fran's ears drooped under the unrelenting heat, which rose off the plains before them in rolling waves and beat down upon them in scorching rays. Basch forged ahead, wading through the tall grass, making a path for Ashe, who trailed along in his wake. Vaan slunk along after them, head down, concentrating only on navigating the cleared path before him. Penelo followed, silent, trudging along as if each step were an ordeal - which probably they were, given her injury. Balthier and Fran brought up the rear, both studying the girl in front of them.

"She's limping," Balthier remarked.

"Not enough to attract the notice of the others," Fran replied.

"I sewed up those wounds only last night, and she's still determined to make the Phon Coast today," he said, irritation coloring his words. "Stubborn little fool. She'll be lucky if they heal properly; she's likely to tear the stitches right out."

"No," Fran said, "She'll be lucky if she makes the Phon Coast alive."

Balthier tripped over his own feet, but collected himself before his lapse was noticed by anyone but Fran. "What do you mean?"

"This heat, this climate, the dirt and dust? She risks infection poisoning her blood." Fran's voice was calm, but the serene recitation of such risk irrationally angered him.

"Someone ought to tell her-"

"She is quite aware," Fran interrupted. "I explained it to her myself yesterday at the river."

Muttering a blistering string of invectives, he surged ahead to catch up to Penelo, deliberately ignoring Fran, who tried to call him back.

Penelo started, then winced at the sharp movement when Balthier appeared beside her. "You don't have to babysit me. I'm fine," she muttered, keeping her voice low.

"_You...are...not._" he ground out. "Were you indeed aware you risk _death_ just to continue on to the Phon Coast?"

"Keep your voice down!" she snapped at Balthier.

Vaan glanced over his shoulder quizzically.

Penelo was silent until Vaan's attention turned back to the trail ahead of him. "Yes, I'm _aware_. At what point on this journey have we _not_ risked death?" Her faced was flushed, but whether anger or the heat was the cause, Balthier could not determine.

"You cannot equate falling victim to infection with assassins," he retorted hotly. "One is an unavoidable hazard of the cause, while the other-"

"Is also unavoidable," she shot back. "Besides water, which might also be contaminated for all I know, I don't have any antiseptics or cleansing agents. Reaching the Phon Coast is my best chance of avoiding infection."

The toe of her boot snagged in a clump of grass, and she went down hard, barely stifling a cry as she fell, catching herself on her hands. Balthier was beside her in an instant, gently lifting her back to her feet. But her fall had gained her the attention of the others as well, and she forced a neutral expression as they gathered around.

"Penelo, are you hurt?" Ashe asked, laying a hand on her shoulder.

Penelo hesitated. "I tripped," she said lamely. "I should have been paying attention. I'm sorry." She squirmed under Balthier's pointed glare, waiting for him to expose her. But he merely thrust his canteen at her. She stared at him blankly.

"Your canteen is empty," he said. "I haven't seen you touch it in more than an hour. Dehydration is a danger in these parts."

"Oh." Her cheeks burned with embarrassment, but took the canteen he offered. "Thank you."

"I've got water, too, Pen, if you need some." Vaan tapped his own canteen. "Just let me know."

"We've much ground to cover yet," Basch said. "We must keep moving."

Ashe waved off Basch's announcement. "We can stop if you need to rest, Penelo."

"Oh, she's _fine_." Balthier remarked scathingly, stalking off ahead of Basch. "She _just tripped_."

Vaan squinted at Balthier's retreating back, scratching the back of his head. "Man, what's got him all bent out of shape?"

Penelo shrugged noncomittally, twisting the cap off Balthier's canteen to take a drink. "Maybe the heat makes him cranky."

* * *

"There's a settlement not far from here," Balthier said. Dusk had fallen, and they'd crossed into the Phon Coast hours ago. "It's a hunter's camp, but they'll have merchants from whom we may purchase supplies."

"We'd do better to avoid the settlements if possible," Basch replied. "Especially in an area such as this - travelers are noticed. We need to remain invisible for the time being."

"We must replenish our supplies, and this settlement has no particular political afiliations. It is our safest option," Balthier argued.

"Basch, please, let's stop there for the night. I'm sure we could all use the respite," Ashe said. But she was looking at Penelo as she spoke. "Just one night when no one has to take watch. I fear the days are wearing on us."

"I could use a break," Vaan volunteered.

"I'll require more arrows soon enough," Fran said. She, too, regarded Penelo with concern, which worried Balthier, as Fran's face seldom betrayed emotion. If Fran was wearing her thoughts so openly, then they truly did need to reach the camp with all due haste.

"The Hunter's camp it is, then," Balthier said. He directed them to the left, down a slope and through a narrow passage.

The grass of the Phon Coast grew lush and green here, and the heat of the day had faded to a humid warmth. The rolling hills slid down into the coastal region, where they would find the camp near the shore.

Beside Balthier, Penelo rubbed her arms briskly to ease the gooseflesh that rose there.

"You can't be cold," he said. "It's still rather warm."

But she turned at the sound of his voice, and in the muted light remaining, her eyes were bright and glassy, her cheeks flushed, and this time he was sure it was neither heat nor anger.

Vaan let out a whoop of glee. "I see it! There's a fire!" he shouted back to them. And there was - in the distance, a faint flickering light lent its glow to the horizon.

"Just a little further," he urged Penelo in a low voice. "It's not far now."

"Thank the gods," she murmured. She took two steps, then wilted like a flower. This time, Balthier caught her, lifting her in his arms. Her head dropped back against his shoulder, the heat of her skin scorching him through his linen shirt.

"Penelo!" Vaan came rushing toward him, skidding to a stop as Balthier stalked past him, continuing towards the camp. He fell into step beside Balthier, asking angrily, "What did you do to her?" He patted her cheek gently, trying to rouse her, then jerked his hand back in surprise.

"_I _did nothing," Balthier's withering tone brought Vaan up short.

"She's burning up," Vaan accused.

"She's got an infected wound that requires attention; we need to get her to the camp as quickly as possible," Balthier responded.

"I'll take her." Basch reached for Penelo, but Balthier drew back.

"I've got her." Something in his tone made Basch withdraw and earned him a curious look from Ashe. The rest of the party flanked Balthier, guarding him and Penelo against any beasts that might draw near.

"When did this happen?" Ashe asked.

"Early yesterday. She's been keeping it hidden."

"But why?"

"Stubornness. Pride. Being a bloody idiot." He blew out a furious breath, trying not to jostle Penelo as they traversed the sandy slope and neared the camp. "Some nonsense about not wanting anyone to worry."

"Ahh," Basch mused. "She didn't wish to hold us back."

Ashe reached out to brush Penelo's bangs back from her flushed face. "You dear, foolish child," she murmured, but her voice was fond and indulgent. "When you recover, I'm going to have to give you a lecture the likes of which you've never before received."

"_If_ she recovers," Basch said gravely. "Such illnessess have felled many before. It may already be too late."

Balthier bristled. "She'll recover," he said. "She's too damned stubborn not to."

"Why, Balthier," Ashe pressed one palm over her heart in a mockery of shock. "I might almost think you _cared_."

Balthier managed a semblance of a shrug, keeping his tone light and bereft of any betraying emotion. "She's a good thief, a decent fighter, and proficient with magicks. We need her."

The words _I need her_ rose in his mind, but he dismissed them. What use could he have for such a foolhardy, willful girl? And yet he still felt protective of her - he had not been willing to surrender her to Basch's care, for reasons he himself did not fully understand. Perhaps it was merely guilt over her injury, guilt that she had suffered alone and in silence because no one had noticed her pain.

"We do need her," Ashe said, "I'll not argue there. Though I've no reason to expect such loyalty from her, I shall be forever grateful for it, and I'll not repay it with indifference. Vaan, you go ahead and inquire about possible accommodations and medical attention. Balthier, step lightly if you please, she ought not be moved overmuch."

Vaan ran off to do Ashe's bidding, and was waiting just outside the camp when they arrived a few minutes later, a healer at his side.

The hunter's camp had nothing that could even vaguely qualify as an inn, so Vaan got to work setting up a campsite of sorts as the healer, a woman called Aryne, took a cursory glance at Penelo's injury. Her mouth set in a thin line, Aryne prodded gently at the seeping wound, grimacing as it produced yellow pus.

"Put her down," she said. "Those stitches will have to come out; they're holding the infection inside." She drew a pouch from the pocket of her skirt, and from it produced a small mortar and pestle, and an assortment of herbs. These she crushed in the mortar with a bit of water to make a thick paste.

Balthier laid Penelo gently upon her bedroll, carefully rolling up the leg of her pants to expose the wound. Aryne knelt beside her, setting the bowl of paste within reach, and unsheathed a small blade. As she gently tugged the sharp blade through the stitches, the wound freely wept blood and pus. Once the thread had been removed, she doused the swollen, rent flesh with clean water, and carefully slathered the thick paste over them.

"The poultice should draw the infection to the surface," Aryne explained. "It has already progressed to a dangerous degree. I can't give you a guarantee that she will live. I can only do so much; she must do the rest."

"Whatever assistance you can render will be much appreciated," Fran said, gently smoothing Penelo's hair away from her face. Her mouth drew into a frown as she gauged the heat eminating from the unconscious girl. "Her fever is far too high, it must be brought down. Ashe, you must disrobe her. I'll need some cloth as well."

Ashe made a motion intended to shoo the men away, but Aryne stayed her.

"No; they will have to hold her down while I cauterize the wounds," she said.

"_Cauterize_?" Balthier seethed. "Are you _mad_?"

Aryne thrust out her chin. "For a wound of this nature, out in these parts, cauterization is her best chance. This is, of course, provided that the poultice has cleansed the wound, for if it hasn't, then nothing will save her."

Fran had doused a cloth in some water from her canteen and was concentrating on bathing Penelo's overheated skin. Ashe had already managed to work Penelo's shirt off, and was considering how best to remove her pants without having to drag them down over the wound.

"For gods' sake," Balthier swore as he reached for a dagger, kneeling down beside Ashe, who gasped as he brandished the weapon. He hooked a finger beneath the waist of Penelo's pants, and dragged the blade down, cleanly rending the fabric.

"You ought to let me do that," Ashe chastised. "A young lady in her underthings..."

"Please, I'm hardly ogling her," Balthier snapped. "She's ill, and besides, she hasn't got anything I haven't seen before, and in more impressive proportions." But he stepped back, and allowed Ashe, in her offended dignity, to drag the ruined garment away from Penelo on her own.

As the women worked to cool Penelo, who shook under an onslaught of chills, Aryne plunged her dagger into the burning coals of the hunter camp's center fire to heat, then returned to carefully wash away the poultice. At her sigh of relief, Balthier let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"The blood runs clean," she said. "She may make it through this after all. Ladies, you may wish to stay back for this. It is not for the faint of heart." She directed Vaan to retrieve her heated dagger, and instructed Balthier into position near Penelo's head to hold down her arms and shoulders, and Basch to her feet to hold her legs.

"Be prepared," she warned Basch and Balthier. "You will have to hold her down with all your strength. It's instinctual to fight under cauterization."

"C-cauterization?" Penelo's weak, thready voice held a note of panic. She'd come to, and Balthier wished with everything in him that she hadn't. Ruthlessly, he tamped down the sympathy that rose in him, pity over what she was to endure. He shoved her shoulders down, clamping her arms to her sides like a vise.

"Please don't let her burn me," she whimpered. "_Please_, Balthier." The fever flush had faded from her face, leaving an unnatural pallor in its wake. Tears trickled freely, running down the sides of her face to disappear into the hair at her temples.

Vaan came running back, a cloth wrapped around the hilt of the glowing dagger to protect his hand from the heat. Penelo trembled. Her terrified eyes darted up to Balthier's, her blue-grey irises nearly eclipsed by her pupils.

"You must be strong," Balthier whispered to her, as Vaan passed the dagger over to Aryne. "In time, this will be nothing but a memory."

And Aryne pressed the heated flat of the blade to her skin.

Penelo's shriek of agony wrenched Balthier's heart, but he and Basch forced her limbs still though she strained under them. The smell of scorched flesh stung Balthier's nose. After an eternity, Aryne lifted the blade and turned it to the last wound. Another piercing cry ended on a pitiful wail, and Penelo went limp.

Balthier let out an unsteady breath. Although Basch rose to confer with the others, Balthier remained seated, unsure if his legs would support him. Instead, he resumed the task of cooling Penelo's fever. Aryne brought him a bowl filled with clean water, several clean cloths, and began her own work applying a salve to the wounds and wrapping them with fresh bandages.

Ashe and Fran rejoined him shortly thereafter to take up the mantle of nursemaids once again.

"Aryne said the bandages must be changed three times a day," Ashe said, "And she has kindly provided us with a bottle of salve as well. Balthier, do you need a moment? You look a touch shell-shocked."

He shook his head as if to clear it. "She trusted me," he muttered. "She asked me not to let Aryne cauterize her. She trusted me to help her." He stood, shoving a hand through his hair. "She _trusted _me. Why the bloody hell would she go and do a fool thing like that?"

Ashe's brow knit in confusion. "Balthier, you _did_ help her. She could have died. Thanks to you, she'll live."

But Balthier was already striding away, caught up in his own personal web of bewilderment.


	4. Fourth Watch

Penelo's fever raged furiously for days. Aryne had taken her leave soon after the cauterization, instructing their party to keep the fever cooled, reassuring them that Penelo was young and strong, and she would recover given time and care. She left with them a sack of herbs to be boiled in water, which would produce a tea known for its curative properties.

Balthier spent more than his fair share of time on nursemaid duty, ministering to Penelo in the shade of the tent they'd constructed around her, to the bemusement of most everyone, but moreso himself. He told himself that he felt a responsibility to her, to the rest of the party to play his part for the success of their mission. He told himself that he was merely protecting his own interests by ensuring her survival, that they couldn't afford to lose what little support they had. He told himself that her youth made him protective of her. He told himself he had seen far too much death already. He told himself that she were to die, it couldn't be here, in a tiny camp at the edge of the Phon Coast, but in a blaze of glory with the rest of them in the liberation of Dalmasca. He told himself he'd merely grown weary of not caring, that he was entertaining himself with his current benevolence. But though he could effortlessly lie to others, it wasn't nearly so simple to lie to himself.

_Responsibility _did not explain away the way his gut clenched when she thrashed and whimpered, held fast in the clutches of her nightmarish fever dreams. Nor did it explain his curiously assiduous efforts to alleviate her discomfort, his constant attention to soothing her heated flesh with cool, wet cloths, his dedication to trickling thin broth or the prescribed tea down her throat in her calm moments.

In rare moments, when the tea and cool cloths eased the fever, she was very nearly lucid. But even if she could hold a cup steady enough to drink from herself, always her eyes were fever-bright, searching but not seeing. She spoke to people not present in frantic, childish whispers. She spoke of fire and death, her breath hitching in terror. She trembled, shook, and then, as if her limbs had grown too heavy to move, collapsed, still as death. Each episode took years off Balthier's life, each time he had to listen for her weak, thready breaths, he paid for sins he'd not yet committed.

On the third day, Ashe ducked into the tent, a bundle of cloth tucked under her arm.

"One of the women in the camp is a seamstress," she said. "We've traded some of our goods for a set of new clothes for Penelo. They'll be a sight better than the ones that had to be cut off, I suppose. She's been in a child's garb for too long; she's long since outgrown the style." She wrinkled her nose delicately. "Though I suppose it was due to necessity rather than any fondness for them. The cost of proper materials can be so dear, and altering clothing is much less expensive than purchasing new."

"What do you mean, she's outgrown a child's clothes? She's still a child." Balthier's blank look startled a laugh out of Ashe.

"She's not a child, Balthier. Goodness, I was _married_ at her age. She's almost eighteen. That suit she wears, they usually don't make them for anyone over the age of twelve. She must've let the seams out to save money on clothing. But then, she's so small that it probably wasn't so difficult to alter them. Girls are into more adult clothing by eleven or twelve in Dalmasca. Is Archades so different, then?" Ashe settled gracefully onto the ground, curling her legs beneath her, and reaching for a cup of water to heat over the fire to prepare the tea.

"I don't entirely recall. I remember my younger sister in frothy white dresses, practically drowning in ruffles and lace. I can't say I can ever recall her wearing such serviceable garments as Penelo. Though I suppose it might be different, considering the class differences. The upper echelon of Archades rarely mingles with the lower," he explained.

"Somehow, Balthier," Ashe said, "I cannot imagine you with a younger sister." Her lips quirked, as if the mere thought conjured amusement.

"She died," he replied abruptly. "Years ago."

Ashe's humor faded as though it had never been. "I'm so sorry," she said quietly.

He waved away her sympathy. "Really, you ought to be grateful to her," he said lightly. "Sarema's death was the catalyst that forced me to break from Archades. I wouldn't be here were she still alive."

Ashe considered this for a moment, stirring the tea and straining the leaves out of it. "I wonder, Balthier, how much of what you present is real?"

A rueful smile touched his face. "I've wondered the same thing. I've been Balthier for so long, I no longer remember who I once was. I suppose you must understand that, having been someone else yourself."

She shook her head slowly. "No. I took the name Amalia for the protection it provided, but I was always myself. I always want to remember the things that brought me to where I am. I used the pain of loss to forge myself into a stronger person, but not a different one. Inside, I'm still that girl who had such love for her husband that she wept over his coffin for days until they pried her away, who helplessly watched her father die, who saw her kingdom burn. All of those things are part of me. To deny them would be a kind of death."

"Then it is fortunate that the boy I was died long ago," he said deliberate carelessness, "and can never be revived. I don't have it in me to forge myself in the fires of adversity, as you did. I lost the part of me that cared about anything years ago."

Ashe studied him in silence for a moment, observed the way his hands wrung out a cloth, folded it neatly, and drew it over Penelo's forehead with exquisite tenderness. She watched as his long, elegant fingers smoothed Penelo's hair from her face, taking care not to pull at the tangled mass of it. She lowered her eyes, feeling as though she'd somehow blundered in on an intimate moment.

"I think perhaps you are wrong," she said softly. "I think that boy has only been hiding, lying in wait for the opportunity to care again. Waiting for someone worth caring for."

Balthier reared back as if she'd struck out at him. For once, the mask of indifference slipped, and Ashe caught a glimpse of the man beneath. A man suspicious and wary, hiding his pain beneath the veneer of recklessness and detachment. But the moment passed, and the mask slid back in place, and he appeared as cool and remote as ever.

"There is nothing worth caring for in this world." His tone was laced with disdain. But he did not meet her eyes.

* * *

Penelo awoke long after dark, disoriented. Her mouth was dry; her hair was a mess of tangles and dirt. Her leg ached, a slow, burning throb that made her wince. She was wrapped in blankets that had clearly seen better days, and she felt as though she'd undergone a beating. She was sore all over, muscles protesting as she sat up.

Her mind called up vague memories of searing pain, of soft, soothing whispers in the dark, of pleading entreaties to grow well again, of broth and bitter tea dripped down her throat, of blessed coolness stroking her heated limbs. Of a strong, warm hand clutching hers, anchoring her to the world of the living when all she had wanted was to slide into the all-encompassing darkness.

She shook her head to clear it, but it only brought a wave of dizziness. She pressed her hand to her forehead, but her fingers caught and pulled in her knotted hair. Her stomach clenched; hunger clawed at her. But that would wait - what she truly needed now was to be _clean_. She felt grimy all over, coated in the sweat and dirt of she didn't know how many days.

In the dim light of the fire outside the makeshift tent, from her limited vantage point, she could make out Basch's boots, and just the tips of Fran's ears. A deep, rhythmic snore told her that Vaan was also accounted for without. She tugged the blanket close around her shoulders, looking about the tent for her bag, but instead she found Ashe, curled up in a corner upon her bedroll, and Balthier, sprawled out on his back behind her, a cloth clutched in his fist.

His own bedroll was nowhere to be seen, and nothing separated him from the hard ground. He looked as though he'd collapsed from exhaustion, right in the middle of a task. A small bowl was resting on the ground beside him, filled with water, and comprehension dawned - the cloth in his hand and the bowl of water; he'd been using them to keep her cool. How long had she been ill, that he'd succumbed to exhaustion like this?

Quietly, so as not to disturb him or Ashe, she shifted to her knees and poked her head out of the tent. As she'd thought, Basch, Fran, and Vaan were sleeping around the campfire. They'd set up camp only thirty feet or so from the edge of the hunter's camp - close enough that they could summon help if needed, but far enough to afford a little privacy. The dying light of their small fire was supplanted by the light of the much larger fire at the heart of the hunter's camp. Penelo shuffled out of the tent, pulling herself up to stand. She was steadier on her legs than she'd expected, but still weak.

Still, she summoned her strength and walked the short distance to the hunter's camp, where a lone woman sat beside the fire. The woman looked up as Penelo approached, but it took Penelo a moment to recognize her.

"You're the healer," she said. "You cauterized me."

The woman opened her mouth, probably to defend her actions that night.

"You probably saved my life," Penelo said. "Thank you."

The woman's mouth snapped shut. Then a wry grin crossed her face. She stood to face Penelo. "I _definitely_ saved your life," she said. She accepted the hand Penelo extended through the blanket. "I'm Aryne. I don't think you were conscious to hear it the first time. It's wonderful to see you up and about; your color's much better."

"Thank you," Penelo replied. "But I still feel terrible. And filthy. And hungry. But mostly filthy. Is there anywhere nearby where I can bathe?"

"Oh. Oh! Yes, absolutely. I'm so sorry; you've been feverish for days, I'm sure you'd welcome a bath. There's a small hotspring not far from here; it's fed from an underground source, and the water is always pleasant and warm. Here, let me get you some soap, it's the least I can do."

Aryne hurried off and returned a few moments later with a bar of soap that smelled of lavender, a comb, and a clean towel. She carried the items with her, leading Penelo off into the darkness towards the spring. The light from the fire died out as they walked through a copse of trees, and they emerged into a small clearing. A pool of water was centered therein, steam rising off in great waves, visible in the clear light of the moon. Aryne set the toiletries down near the edge of the water.

"Most of the camp dwellers bathe here from time to time, but I'll see to it that you're not disturbed by any of us. I'm sure a little privacy would be welcome," she said. "It's shallow; the water should only come to your waist at its deepest, so you needn't fear drowning. I'll stop by your camp in the morning to retrieve my things; don't worry about returning them tonight."

Penelo thanked her, and Aryne faded into the darkness, leaving her to bathe in peace. She tested the temperature with her toes and found it just a shade above warm. With a sigh, she cast off the tattered blanket and her underthings, and slipped into the water. The heat soaked into her abused muscles, releasing tension and soothing the soreness. She collected the soap and comb, wading deeper into the spring to set them upon a smooth rock that jutted up from the center of the pool. The water here was warmer, and she sunk down to her knees to let the warmth wash over her shoulders.

The air was calm and still, the moon giving the only light. Penelo drifted, closing her eyes, soaking in the quiet peacefulness of the hotspring.

* * *

Balthier reached out in his sleep to stroke Penelo's hair, but his fingers connected only with the abandoned bedroll. He jerked upright, his heart in his throat, panic clawing at his gut. Gone! He scrambled out of the tent and to his feet, startling a woman standing near the fire. The healer, Aryne.

"She's just at the hot spring. She awoke about an hour ago, wanting a bath," she said, her voice low to avoid disturbing the others. "You may want to, um..." she coughed delicately, "bring her some clothing. She had only a blanket when I spoke to her."

"She's well?" His voice was oddly hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. "She's recovered?"

Aryne shrugged. "She seemed well enough. She may suffer weakness for a few days, in the aftereffects of the fever. But she's awake and alert." She hesitated. "No doubt she wanted some privacy, but given her recent condition, I think perhaps she should not be left alone for too long. Perhaps one of the women..."

"I will see to her," Balthier said. He ducked back into the tent too quickly to see the flare of amusement in Aryne's eyes. He rooted around in the darkness, finally finding the bundle of clothing Ashe had procured earlier. He tucked it beneath his arm and emerged from the tent once again.

"It's just there, past those trees," Aryne said, gesturing in the direction of the spring. "She's safe enough; no beasts venture this close to the camp."

He stalked off with a curt nod of acknowledgement in the direction Aryne had indicated, at once relieved that Penelo was at last revived and furious that she had gone off alone, again. The obnoxious chit was clearly too reckless for her own good. She needed a keeper or she'd get herself killed. A muscle ticked in his jaw as his ire grew. Foolish child couldn't even be bothered to wake anyone to tell them before she'd rushed off once more into the night.

A splashing sound reached him through the trees, alerting him to the spring's proximity, and he stepped into the clearing, prepared to launch into a furious tirade, but the words died before he could speak them.

Steam rolled off the spring, catching the moonlight in the mist, casting a foggy aura around the spring. And Penelo stood in the water, her back to him, carefully pulling a comb through her wet hair. Moonlight gilded her skin, droplets of water shining like a mantle of stars against her silken shoulders. She looked like a mermaid, a siren, a creature of exquisite sensuality, created solely to lure unwitting men to their doom. Unconsciously seductive, innocently enticing. She was...dangerous.

Her hair, unbound, reached nearly to her waist. His fingers itched to run through it again - clean, it would be soft, fine, silky, and free of the tangles that had taken up residence in her fevered days. Her narrow waist flared gently into generous hips, a lovely figure that had been camouflaged by her unflattering child's garments.

He could have alerted her to his presence, but the wicked streak in him would not be denied. Instead, he silently took a seat at the egde of the pool, observing. He couldn't even summon a modicum of guilt for his voyeurism - instead he experienced the excitement of a child who had ripped the wrapping paper off of a gift, discovering the untold wonders beneath.

She hummed a few bars of a wistful-sounding song, rubbing a bar of soap between her hands to work up a lather, and Balthier shifted uncomfortably as she stroked her soapy hands along her limbs. The filmy bubbles clung and slid, accentuating curves. His hands curled, as if in anticipation of touching her, learning the shape of her body. She lifted handfuls of water, sluicing it down her body to wash away the last of the soap, sighing in delight. The sweet sound sent a shiver down his spine. She collected the bar of soap and comb, turned, and stopped abruptly, her eyes lighting on him. For a moment she stood, staring blankly, as if uncomprehending. Then she gave a tiny cry of dismay, jerked her arms over her breasts, and overbalanced herself, toppling backwards into the water.

He suppressed a snicker - barely - as she resurfaced, sputtering. This time, she knelt on the smooth stone floor of the pool, the water nearly reaching her shoulders. She pushed her hair out of her face, glaring at him.

"What are you _doing _here?" she demanded.

He shrugged nonchalantly. "Taking in the sights. You know better than to go out alone; you should have taken Fran or Ashe with you. As you did not, you are stuck with me." He propped his chin in his hand. "By all means, do continue."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'm finished, thanks. If you could hand me the towel..." She pointed a few feet away from Balthier, where a folded length of fabric lay.

He stood, retrieved it, held it out.

She coughed delicately into her hand, a scarlet flush creeping slowly over her cheeks. "If you would look away for a few moments?"

He gave a long-suffering sigh, but averted his eyes. A few seconds of splashing, then the towel was snatched out of his hand. He waited patiently, until she finally announced, "Okay, I'm decent again."

Decent was a matter of opinion, he thought. The towel covered her, but just barely. He wasn't sure how much more of that he would be able to withstand. So he grabbed the clothes he'd brought and thrust them at her.

"Wear these," he said. "Ashe procured them for you; replacements for the clothing that we had to cut off of you."

"Oh." Penelo took the bundle of cloth, carefully unfolding it. "Ohhh. These are...too nice. Nicer than anything I've ever owned." Her voice trembled a bit, sounding suspiciously like she might cry.

Balthier cleared his throat. "I shall leave you to dress, then. If you haven't returned to camp in ten minutes, however, I _will_ come looking for you."

"No." She thrust her hand out imperiously. "I don't trust you _not_ to spy on me. Stand there, where I can see you, and turn your back. I won't have you lurking in the woods, doing gods know what." Her nose tilted at an impudent angle, she fixed him with her best attempt at a commanding look. It failed; with her wet hair clinging to her and a droplet of water threatening to drip off the tip of her nose, she looked too much like a mischevious water nymph to incite anything other than mirth.

Nonetheless, he turned his back. A wet plop heralded the towel dropping to the ground, and he barely resisted the nigh-overwhelming urge to turn around. Fabric rustled, and his mind conjured up tempting images of soft fabric sliding over softer skin. He gritted his teeth.

"Um, Balthier?" A tentative call from behind him. "I can't get the ties...could you...?"

He turned and caught his breath. He hadn't examined the clothes that Ashe had purchased, and of course he was familiar with current fashions, but he had never imagined Penelo in anything other than her typical concealing clothing, and therein lay his mistake. The billowy crimson pants hung low on her hips, exposing the enchanting dip at the small of her back. The silvery top, if it could be called that, given how little fabric the garment contained, ended just below her breasts, and tied in two places, at the back of her neck, and across her back. She'd managed the one at her neck, but hadn't managed to get the other. One hand held the fabric secure across her breasts, and the other held her wet hair over her shoulder.

He didn't want to do it. It would almost certainly necessitate touching her, and he didn't want to do it. Rather, he wanted to do it altogether too much, and that simply would not do. But he was already walking towards her, his body moving of its own accord, hands reaching for the ties. His knuckles brushed the flesh of her back, and she shivered involuntarily. And so did he.

Gritting his teeth, he tied the strings together as hastily as possible, needing to put some distance between them before he did something he would regret. He needed to go back, to return to the time when he'd been able to dismiss her as a child.

But she stepped away, thanking him for his assistance, bending to retrieve her things, and he got a clear view straight down her cleavage and bit back a curse. The dip of her navel tantalized, the exposed skin of her midriff invited stroking, her top which was held up by only flimsy bits of string provoked delightful, terrifying thoughts of how easily she could be divested of it.

The veil had lifted. Penelo the child was gone, replaced by someone infinitely more dangerous.


	5. Fifth Watch

Penelo darted a sidelong glance at Balthier, who strode along beside her on the way back to camp. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, but his mouth was set in a firm line, too serious to be concentrating on something so simple as the quick trip back. He seemed almost...annoyed. Maybe even offended. And that pricked her temper, as she certainly hadn't been the one spying on _him_ in the bath. And really, she'd been remarkably calm and polite, considering his rude intrusion and merciless teasing thereafter. But then, he wasn't particularly threatening - he was just a shameless flirt, mostly harmless. Probably he simply couldn't resist the chance to poke fun at her. Which, really, was sort of a cruel thing to do.

"I don't need a babysitter," she groused. "I was perfectly safe. The water wasn't deep; it's not like I was in any danger of drowning."

His head jerked toward her, expression incredulous. "You had been unconscious for _three days_, and delirious much of the time. And then you have the unmitigated gall to go rushing off into the night for a _bath_?" A muscle ticked in his jaw, eyes narrowed, staring her down with a piercing gaze. "I swear I've never met anyone so prone to mishaps as you, so if it takes constant supervision to keep you from getting your fool self killed, then so be it."

She stopped abruptly, eyebrows inching toward her hairline in disbelief. "Were you...were you actually _worried_ about me?"

"We were _all_ worried!" he shouted, and she flinched at the sudden anger in his tone. Abashed, she scuffed her toes in the grass, feeling uncomfortably like a chastened child.

"We've all taken our turns playing nursemaid, doing our damnedest to keep you alive against incredible odds, and _you_ keep rushing right back into potential danger with not a single care for your own wellbeing or our considerable efforts to safeguard it!" He made a disgusted sound in his throat, raking his hands through his hair in frustration. "Have you even a single ounce of good sense in that pretty little head of yours?"

She winced. "Balthier, I didn't think...I...I'm sorry."

"Are you, then?" he scoffed. "Then don't let it happen again. Your recklessness jeopardizes all of us. Gods, a _child_ has a better sense of self-preservation!"

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. "I said I was sorry!" she snapped. "You don't have to keep yelling at me!" His censure shamed her, ignited her anger. "_I _should be the one yelling at _you_!"

He had the temerity to look affronted. "What have _I _done to you, then?"

"You _spied_ on me, you lecherous -" She broke off on a gasp as he moved swiftly toward her, bringing himself uncomfortably close. She backed away, and he followed until her back hit the trunk of the tree, trapping her.

"Why all this indignation _now_, then?" His voice had gone muted, husky. "Why not rail at me _then_?"

She swallowed heavily, pressing herself back against the tree trunk. Her fingers plucked nervously at the bark. "You didn't...you didn't really mean anything by it..." she stammered.

His lips quirked into a sly smile. And though his eyes flickered with amusement, a banked fire glowed behind them, unsettling her. Slowly, deliberately, he plucked a lock of wet hair from her shoulder, twining it around his finger. He bent close, until she closed her eyes and turned her face away, shying from his intensity. But the heat emanating from his body burned her nonetheless. His breath stirred the hair at her ear and she shivered, and knew he had noticed the helpless reaction by his sharp intake of breath.

"Didn't I?" he murmured at her ear. "Hmmm."

He released her hair, and she knew he had stepped away by the cool air that rushed in to replace his heat. When she opened her eyes, he was a few feet away, his cool gaze observing her with complete disinterest.

"Come. It's late." His voice had a commanding snap, and Penelo pried herself off the tree trunk, trailing along behind him like a puppy after its master, nursing her bruised pride. Maybe he wasn't _quite_ as harmless as she'd lead herself to believe.

* * *

"Have you and Balthier quarreled?" Ashe asked, handing Penelo a bowl of some sort of gruel.

Penelo shrugged. "He had a thing or two to say, I guess." She stirred the slop in the bowl, grimacing as it stuck to the spoon, pulling in long, stringy threads of goo. Unappetizing, to say the very least.

"Well, he said it loudly enough to rouse the lot of us," Ashe responded, taking a seat. "Do eat. I know it isn't terribly appealing, but going from broth and tea directly to rich foods would probably be too much for your stomach to accomodate."

Penelo heaved a sigh, took a hesitant bite. The consistency was terrible, but at least the flavor was palatable. "He didn't have to _shout_ at me," she muttered.

"If he hadn't, one of us would have," Ashe returned lightly. She set a hand on Penelo's shoulder. "You really ought not to have gone off alone."

"I know that, now," Penelo murmured. "No one's worried about me in such a long time. It really just didn't occur to me that anyone would, now." She hesitated. "I'm grateful for all you've done for me. I'm sorry it seemed like I didn't appreciate it." She looked down into her bowl, blinking furiously to hold off the tears that threatened.

Ashe nudged the younger girl with her shoulder. "You've done much for us as well," she said. "More than should ever have been expected of you. But you're not on your own anymore. Just remember that, won't you?"

Penelo nodded, then ducked her head and averted her eyes as Balthier appeared and tossed some wood in the fire, poking the embers with a stick to stoke it. He shot a thin-lipped, narrow-eyed look at Penelo, and Ashe tsked.

"Honestly," she huffed. "A grown man, sulking."

That earned her a glare all her own, and he dropped the stick with a muffled curse, stalking off furiously into the darkness.

"_He's_ allowed to go off on his own, I see," Penelo said petulantly. She tipped her head back, sighed heavily.

"Yes, well, _he's_ not recovering from a rather serious illness. And he's only gone to join Basch and Fran at the hunter's camp." Ashe took Penelo's empty bowl, replacing it with a cup of the bitter tea. Penelo pulled a face, but drank it anyway.

"We've decided to stay here a few more days. It will give you time to rest and recover. In the meantime, this area seems to be plagued with beasts that the residents will pay handsomely to be rid of. Accepting some jobs will give us an opportunity to gain a bit more capital, which we'll no doubt have need of eventually," Ashe said, casting a regretful look at Penelo. "I'm afraid that you must remain here. Until you are fully recovered, you'll be more of a liability than an asset on the battlefield."

"It's okay; I understand." Penelo managed a weak smile. "I can make myself useful here. Cook or something, maybe. Wash clothes. We've all gone too long in without clean clothing as it is."

"You can make yourself useful by _resting_," Ashe admonished lightly. "Don't strain yourself."

"Really, there's only so long I can sit idle; I have to make myself useful somehow. I promise I won't overdo it," Penelo said. She smothered a yawn, finding her energy suddenly depleted to the point of exhaustion. Perhaps a few restful days would do her some good after all.

"I shall hold you to that, then." Ashe rose, gently prying Penelo's empty cup from her hands. "Now, go to sleep. And if I find you've jeopardized your recovery further, I shall give you a lecture that will make Balthier's seem like a cozy chat."

* * *

The day was well advanced by the time Penelo awoke. A cool breeze blew in from the sea, tempering the heat of the summer sun. The wind carried with it a crisp, salty scent that Penelo found rather refreshing. The rest of her party had likely been gone for several hours already, and would likely not return for several more, but Penelo had never been much good at sitting idle. Years of being more or less on her own had cured her of any propensity towards laziness she might once have had.

She scavenged clothing from bags, clothing that had long since surpassed merely 'dirty' and had been worn straight on through 'filthy.' They had had little enough time along their journey to stop and wash themselves, much less to look after their clothing, but hopefully it wouldn't prove to be too insurmountable a task for one afternoon.

The clothing wrapped into a neat bundle, she made the quick trip through the copse of trees to the hot spring, laying the items out. The heated spring water proved effective in soaking out sweat and dirt, though some of their garmets would always wear the proof of their hardships in the form of grass stains. But at least the washing managed to remove the offensive smells, and though the whites would no longer be quite so pristine, at least they could, at last, be called clean once again.

She laid the freshly-laundered clothing out on the smooth, flat rocks near the bank, hoping the sunlight would hold until the clothing was fully dried, then took the opportunity to change the bandage on her leg. To he relief, the wound was healing well enough. The flesh had scabbed over, and though it was tender to the touch, it was no longer inflamed. The skin was knitting; the infection well and truly vanquished.

She spread salve over the scab, carefully rewrapping the wound. At least Balthier wouldn't be able to accuse her of negligence in this respect. Why _was_ he so willing to think the worst of her? She sighed. It didn't matter. They'd part ways soon enough - either as champions of Dalmasca's freedom, or in death.

* * *

Night had fallen when the party finally returned, guided back to camp by the glowing firelight, the succulent scent of roasting cockatrice wafting out to meet them as they approached. Penelo sat near the campfire, bent low over a swath of fabric in her lap, sewing. She lifted the fabric, tearing through a thread with her teeth to finish off a seam. Her hands worked diligently to fold the garment with a clothier's precision.

"How utterly domestic."

Her head jerked around at the scathing tones, lips pursing into a moue of distaste as her gaze fell on Balthier. Ashe threw him a caustic look.

"Dinner's ready," Penelo said, choosing not to dignify Balthier's sarcasm with a response. "Did you bring down any marks?"

"We did indeed," Fran replied. "Two of them, in fact. The rewards from these ought to replenish our coffers and supply us with improved armor."

"You have been busy as well, I see," Ashe said. "You haven't overexerted yourself, I hope?"

Penelo shook her head. "I picked up a few things from the hunter's camp, but I didn't go any further than the hot spring. Really, I just did some laundry and cooking; nothing particularly strenuous." She busied herself with sorting the clothing into piles as the others cut slices of steaming meat off the spit and settled down to eat.

"I think I should be ready to travel by tomorrow," Penelo said. "The day after at the very latest. We've delayed too long already."

Vaan spoke around a mouthful of meat. "You're only just now recovering. We can wait."

"I have bandages and salve. The wound is still a bit sore, but if we wait until it's fully healed, we'll be here for weeks. There's no danger of reopening the wound, and as long as I keep it covered and protected, it'll continue to heal." Penelo gathered up the spool of thread, tucking in the loose end, and shoving the needle through to keep it in place.

"Yes, well, we've all seen how well you take care of yourself," Balthier snapped. "So do forgive us for being reluctant to continue on merely on your word that you'll do so."

"Balthier." Fran's voice was a sharp as Penelo had ever heard it, but she paid it no heed. Blood rushed in her ears; anger brought heat to her cheeks. Her hands clenched into fists around handfuls of snowy white linen. She threw the garment, flooded with satisfaction as it smacked Balthier clear in the face. Anger spent, she drew a deep breath.

"I mended your shirt," she said, voice low and even. "But now I'm beginning to wonder why I bothered." She turned without another word, retreating to the tent.

Balthier set the shirt aside, returning to his meal with an air of indifference. Silence reigned over the campsite for a few seconds, until Basch cleared his throat.

"That was poorly done of you, if you ask me," he said.

"Then it is rather a good thing that I did not ask," Balthier returned acidly.

"Don't be asinine," Ashe shot back. "Why must you antagonize that poor girl? She's done nothing to you. She tries ever only to be helpful, and yet you continue to throw her kindness back in her face."

"She ought not be here at all," Balthier retorted. "This is war. Someone so young has no place here. She's already come close to losing her life."

Vaan stared at Balthier, mystified. "She's two months older than me," he offered. "I didn't hear you complaining when we were bagging those marks today."

"She's fragile. She's more than proved that, I think. She'd be safer back in the city."

Vaan choked on a laugh. "Where, in Rabanastre? Archades?" He hooted with genuine mirth. "It's not like we grew up in the lap of luxury, you know. We eat better out here than we did in Rabanastre half the time. No offense," he said, noting Ashe's pained expression. "It's just that the war cost us our families. We take the odd job to bring in some money, but we sleep in Lowtown, in the alleyways, with the rest of the street children. We've got no control over our fate in Rabanastre. We survive on charity."

Fran studied Balthier intently. "You, too, once wished to challenge fate, Balthier. Have you forgotten already the lessons you have learned?"

Balthier subsided into silence, subdued and brooding. The fire crackled, the sound dominating the stillness of the night.

* * *

Penelo rose early to change out her bandage by the hot spring and refill the canteens. The restfulness of the previous day had certainly revitalized her, and she hoped that the rest of the party would be amenable to continuing their journey. Already she itched to travel; she'd been stuck in one place for far too long.

When she returned to the camp some time later, she found the lone straggler, Balthier, and stopped short.

"They've gone to replenish supplies," he said. "We'll be moving on when they return, so I would suggest you pack up your things." His tone conveyed a measure of disapproval, but at least no overt hostility.

Discomfited, she began to gather her own things, shoving them into her knapsack. A heavy sigh from behind her had her glancing over her shoulder. Balthier stood, fingers pressed to his forehead, rubbing away lines of concern. She watched as he dug in his bag, withdrawing a folded sheet of paper and presenting it to her.

She didn't move. "What is it?"

"A peace offering," he said, voice deliberately bland, "take it."

Warily she reached out and snagged it, carefully unfolding it. Lines and dots were scrawled across the page in unrecognizable patterns. She stared at it, uncomprehending.

"A star chart," he said by way of explanation. "They can be used for navigation. Every explorer ought to have one."

"Thank you," she managed. Her throat burned, eyes watered. She'd had gifts before, though not in a long while. But this one...this one was special. She was used to being looked at but not seen; heard but not understood. But Balthier had done both. And somehow his consideration hurt worse than the lash of his anger. His indifference would be easier to bear than his affection, given the fact that would inevitably part ways.

He cleared his throat. "I'd suggest you pack it away. We leave forthwith for Balfonheim."


	6. Sixth Watch

In her haste to complete her packing and prepare to leave in time with the rest of the party, Penelo had eschewed her typical plaits and opted for the relative ease and speed of arrangement that only a simple ponytail could provide. Unfortunately, her fine, fair hair, without its customary braids, was...distracting, at least to Balthier. Freed from the weightiness of the plaits, it bounced up into natural waves, floating in an intricate dance as the winds rushing across the plains swept it into motion, only to desert it so that it settled, at last, with mesmerizing swaying, over the bare small of her back.

No longer a prisoner of the heat in her child's garb, Penelo blossomed instead of wilting. Though they were all coated in sweat from the arduous trek towards their next location, only Penelo glowed. No, more than glowed...she sparkled. As if lit from within, she radiated joy and pleasure, her rapt gaze darting about in search of whatever new wonders each new exotic locale might hold, as if afraid that if she so much as blinked, she might miss something. She put him in mind of a caged bird that had slipped its confines, and now beat its wings furiously in haste to at last soar free amidst the endless blue sky. And once again, in the way that only she could, she made Balthier look upon the landscape with new eyes. A previously unencountered creature would amble across the worn path, and he could feel more than hear her delighted gasp and gentle, feathery exhalation, see her slowly-widening blue eyes, soft and bright with discovery.

And he wondered how long it had been since he had been so guileless, so completely devoid of artifice and pretensions, for he could not recall a time he had taken so much pleasure in such ordinary occurrences. But her unguarded reactions polished every landscape to blinding brightness, crumbled his world-weary cynicism into raw wonder.

The air was clean and fresh here, the chatter of birds in the trees an ethereal chorus, the cheerful melodies urging them ever onward. The tall grasses rippled in waves under an onslaught of wind, tender green stalks flecked through with the burnished gold of advancing summer shimmering in the sunlight. Once again he saw the beauty in the wild, untamed land, heard the call of adventure, felt the pull of excitement and promise of glory reeling him in. And he knew - _knew_ - that she felt it as well, that Penelo, too, possessed an adventurer's heart.

The grassy plains sloped gently downward, vast, rolling hills sliding down into the port city of Balfonheim. He could not yet hear the roar of the ocean, but he could smell it in the air, the salty taste of the sea breeze lingering on his tongue, in his throat, with each breath. And he noted, too, that Penelo also relished it, tilting her face to the sun and she took a deep, cleansing breath. Another gust of wind whipped her loose hair into his face, stinging, and the spell was broken.

"Oh! I'm sorry." Her delicate fingers gently tugged away the offending strands, pulling her hair down over her shoulder, smoothing it away from her face. Even, white teeth worried her lower lip, wispy flyaway strands of blonde hair fluttered against her wind-flushed cheeks.

"No harm done," he muttered. But the wind molded the lightweight fabric of her pants to her legs with a carelessly intimate caress, and his gaze lingered for a fraction of a second too long before he managed to jerk it away.

He turned away too quickly, felt a seam in his shirt pull and hold, and recalled that it had been mended since last he had worn it. The practiced stitchery had rendered the garment wearable again, the fabric cleansed of all manner of offensive odors and stains. But it felt different - the linen, usually pressed to stiffness by either starch or the collected salt from the sea breeze, now felt smooth and buttery soft. How had she managed that?

"I suppose I ought to thank you," he said. "For mending and laundering my shirt. I can't imagine how you managed to do it; by all rights it should have dried stiff as a plank of wood."

She ducked her head, embarrassed, giving a half-hearted shrug. "It's best to pound the salt out with a rock. It's the same with sand. I used to help my mother do the washing, when my brothers would come home from the Westersands covered in sand and worse; it's really the only way I know to get it out."

He considered that. "It must've taken quite some time."

Another shrug. "I had it in spades. I don't care for sitting idle."

He had noticed. For weeks she had kept up with their blistering pace across Ivalice during the days, and then spent a significant portion of their nights setting up camp, gathering supplies, cooking dinner, and generally looking after the rest of their party. He wasn't so sure anyone else had truly noticed, for she generally affected the mien of a good servant - always quiet and in the background, anticipating needs and fulfilling them before they were voiced. Her actions gained no acknowledgment because she performed them not out of desire for praise but out of necessity. She received no thanks because the tasks had been performed before anyone had noticed they required attention. The face she presented to everyone else was not who she truly was but who they needed her to be. Her true self was given leave to emerge only when she was alone and there was therefore no need to fulfill anyone else's expectations.

He thought it was possible, likely, even, that he might've been the only one who had gotten a glimpse of the real Penelo - when she'd spoken so longingly of the stars, when he'd observed her without her knowledge at the hot spring, the night he'd stitched her wounds.

"I think perhaps you've not been idle long enough to know whether or not you might enjoy it," he remarked.

"It doesn't matter," she said, shading her eyes against the afternoon sun. "It's a luxury I can't afford, and what good would growing used to it do for me? I can't miss something I've never had." She skirted around a boulder, and he noticed she was favoring her wounded leg. Just a bit, not so much that any of the others would have noticed, but he had been looking for it, waiting for it.

"You might as well start growing accustomed to it," he said, striving to keep his tone light lest he provoke her into another argument. He caught her shoulder and hauled her back, pushing her down to sit upon a long, low outcropping in the boulder and holding her there. "You'll be experiencing it directly. Basch!"

Basch and Ashe were some distance ahead already, but they came loping back, catching up with Vaan and Fran along the way.

"Penelo requires rest. We ought to stop here for the night," Balthier said. "Isn't that so, Penelo?" He fixed her with a stare so intense that she flushed guiltily, silently daring her to dissent.

"Yes, I...I do need to rest. I'm sorry; I was going to ask for a break soon, really." She plucked self-consciously at the soft fabric of her pants, eyes downcast.

"A wise decision," Balthier said approvingly. "We're safe enough here. If we leave at first light, we ought to make Balfonheim by late afternoon tomorrow."

"But it's so close!" Vaan protested. "I can see it from here!"

"Forced perspective," Basch said as he dropped his bag, rooting through it for a flint and steel. "The hills run right down into it, and the angle makes it seem much closer than it truly is. Late afternoon is perhaps too ambitious. At our current pace, it could take a few hours longer."

Beneath his hand, Balthier felt Penelo squirm uncomfortably. Though Basch had not meant the statement as a judgment of any fashion, she could not help but to take it that way. After all, their pace _had_ slowed considerably in deference to Penelo's more limited capabilities.

"Let me at least take care of dinner," she offered, struggling to shrug off Balthier's hand to rise.

"No," Ashe smiled reassuringly. "Fran and I shall take charge of that task. You may, however, tend the fire and brew yourself some tea." She dangled the pouch of herbs before Penelo, who accepted them with a look of distaste.

"I'm really starting to hate this tea," Penelo muttered.

"Nevertheless, you'll drink it," Ashe insisted. "Balthier will see that you do." She waved a hand imperiously, every inch a princess expecting her wishes to be fulfilled, but the mischief in her eyes bespoke some nebulous scheming nonsense that pricked at Balthier's temper. He bared his teeth in an insolent travesty of a smile, a message that she would find him a worthy opponent should her unknown machinations involve him.

"Of course," he agreed, his amiable tone at odds with his mutinous expression. "I should like nothing better."

* * *

The stillness of the night was broken by a crinkling of paper, and Balthier looked up from the small, leather-bound book he'd been reading. He could not see clearly across the camp, but somehow he knew who the culprit was, and what she was doing.

"Put it away, Penelo," he said in a low voice. "We've much ground to cover tomorrow. Rest while you are able."

Penelo shifted towards him on her bedroll, patently ignoring his request, struggling to decipher the star chart held in her hands. She alternated between squinting at the markings in the dim firelight and peering up at the sky. "I can't read this," she sighed. "How can anyone make out all these dots and lines?"

Balthier stifled a groan - would the willful child never do as she was instructed? Nonetheless, he resigned himself to indulging her curiosity, as he'd surely find no peace until he did. Snapping the book closed and setting it down beside him, he held out his hand. "Bring it here," he commanded.

She wrestled herself free of the confines of her bedroll, tiptoeing silently across the camp, and dropping down beside him to hand over the chart. She folded her legs beneath her, leaning over so that she could see it more clearly in his hands.

"These lines connect the stars into clusters called constellations." He gestured to the map, pointing out a small group of five stars. "You see, this group here is called _Eritenya's Compass_. The cluster is evenly spaced, which makes it one of the easiest constellations to locate." He pointed to the east, and Penelo easily located the cluster, twinkling brightly in the velvety blackness of the night sky.

"If you can find _Eritenya's Compass_, you ought to be able to locate some of the other constellations that surround it," Balthier said. He slid the map over to her, tapping a finger to the chart. "Find this one."

Penelo traced the outline of the constellation on the sheet of paper, then searched the sky. In relation to _Eritenya's Compass_, it was due west, or at least so claimed the star chart. But she found it easily, and pointed it out to Balthier with a pleased little laugh.

"Good. That one is called _The Judgment of Canteras_," Balthier said. "Do you see how the stars form a scythe?" He traced them for her, and indeed, they did resemble a scythe sweeping down as if in mid-swing. "It's named for an old legend in which an ancient king, Canteras, was executed by his people for his tyranny. He kept them poor and heavily taxed so he could fund his own indulgences, and thus was denied an honorable death at the point of a sword instead to be executed with the only tool at his people's disposal - a farm worker's scythe. A grisly end to a mockery of a king."

Wide-eyed, Penelo inquired, "Is that _true_?"

Balthier shrugged. "Who can say? Any evidence of his existence has been lost to time, and we are left with only a cluster of stars in the sky and a legend. But then, all legends contain within them fragments of truth."

Penelo brushed her fingers reverently over the chart, the closest she would likely ever get to reaching the stars. "Will you write the names down for me? I don't want to forget them."

"Better not," he said. "The names are intentionally left blank by chart makers, as each kingdom has its own legends. I know only Archades' names for the stars; you may wish to fill in Dalmasca's yourself, instead."

She shook her head. "I never knew them. Not much use in learning the names when you can't see them beyond the city lights." She tipped her head back, examining the sky with eyes that contained a new and fascinating knowledge. "Thank you for the star chart," she said. "It was kind of you. Assuming we make it through this alive, I'm going to learn everything there is to know about the stars. I'm going to follow them all over Ivalice, to the ends of the earth."

An amused chuckle. "Best to pick just one to start out with, lest you be drawn in too many directions at once."

She smiled, shrugged her understanding. "Fine, then. That one." She pointed to a star at the center of a new constellation on the chart, then searched it out on the western horizon. "That one right there. That's the one I'm going to follow. What's it called?"

He stilled, the lips that had been curled in indulgent amusement just moments ago flattening out into a firm line. "Pick another. That one will not guide you anywhere you wish to go."

She cocked her head to one side, studying him curiously. Something had changed in him in a space of seconds, and she wanted desperately to discover what it was. She shook her head. "No. I've decided already. I just want to know what it's called, Balthier."

"You really ought to just pick a different -"

"Just tell me the name," she said. "I can be awfully tenacious when I want to be. I'll pry it out of you one way or another."

He made an irritated sound in the back of his throat, averting his gaze. "_The Pirate Balthier,_" he said peevishly.

She barely suppressed a giggle, coughing to disguise the laughter that rose in her throat. "You took your name from the stars?"

"Why would you think I appropriated the name? Perhaps I was named for them," he said lightly.

She shook her head. "No, I think not. I can tell when you're lying."

He arched a brow. "I highly doubt that," he drawled in disbelief. "I'm rather an accomplished liar."

An artful shrug. "Be that as it may, growing up in the low places that I have, I've had more experience with liars and unsavory characters than I'd care to admit. There are always those willing to take advantage of a girl on her own. For my own safety, I learned to listen for lies. You may be a good liar, but I'm a better listener, and Balthier is _not_ your given name."

He regarded her shrewdly, as though trying to ascertain the veracity of her speech. His eyes narrowed. "Tomas," he said.

"Lie." She wrinkled her nose as if she could smell it.

"Drasen." Still his eyes observed her steadily.

"Lie." An airy, silvery laugh, her eyes glinting with mirth, reflecting the glimmering stars above them.

"Ffamran."

Her mirth died by degrees, the smile slowly fading as she turned to face him. She settled her chin in her palm, her brow furrowing in confusion...and interest. "Truth," she said softly.

Balthier surged to his feet. "It's nearly Fran's watch," he said in clipped tones dripping with scorn, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt, studiously avoiding Penelo's curious gaze. "Wake her in twenty minutes. I'll be gone a while."

"Balthier, what are you afraid of? It's not a crime to tell the truth. It's not a weakness to show your true self."

His jaw clenched, his eyes burning with anger. "I fear nothing," he said brusquely. "I simply don't care to have an irritating little street urchin with no manners or sense of which to speak prying into my life. Don't mistake me for a friend, Penelo. You, all of you, are merely a means to an end. Nothing more."

Penelo sighed as she watched him stalk away into the darkness. Then she turned her eyes to the western sky, raising her hand to trace the outline of Balthier's constellation with her fingers.

"Lie," she sighed wistfully. But the word was swallowed up into the all-encompassing silence.


	7. Seventh Watch

Midway through the day, the sunlight had faded behind the clouds, darkening the sky to a dismal grey. Though the roiling clouds on the horizon warned of an oncoming storm, the mist and fog in the air were a blessed respite from the heat of the day. The moisture painted the grasslands with glistening water droplets and saturated any absorbent material available, which meant that Penelo's clothing was heavy with it. But she slogged ahead anyway, that much more determined to make Balfonheim before the sky opened up and released the torrential rain that threatened.

Balthier had been hanging well back, conversing quietly with Fran for some time. Penelo supposed that he'd revealed more to her than he'd wished to and was now regretting testing her. Nonetheless, she could afford to be generous - she'd let him have his petulant sulk if that was what he desired, much as she hadn't protested his little midnight jaunt last night. She'd been asleep by the time he'd returned, and she was willing to bet that he'd planned it that way.

"You doing okay?" Vaan asked from her right. "Basch thinks we'll make Balfonheim within the hour. Getting hard to tell, though, through all this fog."

"I'm fine," Penelo said. And she was, thus far. The moisture that had soaked her pants through was acting like a cold compress of sorts, and felt rather soothing against her wound. "I can't even see the city lights through all this anymore, and we're walking right into the heart of the storm, it looks like. I hope Basch knows where he's going."

"I'm sure he does. After all, he said this slope runs right into the city, so as long as we follow it, we should end up there." He shifted his bag on his shoulders and dragged his shoes to scrape off the mud that clung to them. "We're gonna get rooms at an inn when we get there."

Penelo darted him an uncertain glance. "Will that be safe? We _are_ trying to keep a low profile."

Vaan shrugged. "I wondered, too, but then Ashe started talking about _real_ rooms with _real_ beds. Basch thinks it'd be better not to, but he says the city's large enough that he doesn't think anyone'll take much notice of us as long as we keep to ourselves. And it'd be a difficult night, trying to camp out in the storm, anyway. No way to build a fire."

"Yeah, I guess you're right." She considered the low-hanging clouds, heavy with precipitation. "We'd probably mildew. Or drown. Or both. So, I guess...it'll be nice, to have a real bed for a night."

"We got enough gil from those marks to rent rooms for a month; we might as well get some use out of it. After all, it's not _that_ much further to Archades." He pushed his hair out of his face, frowning as though it had only just occurred to him that their destination might truly be their final one - and that unspent gil could be gil wasted.

She injected a cheerful tone into her words to draw him from his sudden dark mood. "Well. We'll live it up a little tonight, won't we?"

And just as the muted coronas of the city lights in the distance broke through the fog, the heavens opened and released an onslaught of icy rain.

* * *

The inn was small, but at least it was clean and dry. On the outskirts of Balfonheim, it was the best place to stop - out of the way, down a rarely-used lane, and containing only eight rooms to let. Established by an elderly widow seeking to eke out a living after the death of her husband, it was the perfect place to spend the night - quiet, secluded, and far away from the bustle of the city streets.

Though they'd arrived wet and bedraggled, the proprietress had eagerly ushered them inside and shown them to their rooms, assuring them that she would send her serving girl up with a light supper and bath water as soon as it could be heated, which, she regretfully informed them, might take some time.

Basch passed around room keys, instructed them to meet on the morrow in the common room downstairs, and they'd all dutifully dispersed to their rooms. Penelo's room was at the far end of the corridor on the second floor; a small but cheerfully-decorated room, with a thick, downy coverlet spread over the narrow bed, and a fire already burning in the hearth. A fluffy white towel was draped across the footboard of the bed, and she wrapped it around her shoulders and sat down before the fire, not wanting to be caught undressed when the servant brought up dinner.

The glow of the fire brought the feeling back into her toes, which had been numbed by the cold for so long that even the pinpricks of returning sensation was a relief. The wind outside rattled the shutters of the window, so loud that when the knock came, heralding the arrival of dinner, it was a struggle to hear it over the racket.

Penelo unlatched the door, allowing the little maid to shuffle inside, weighted down by a tray laden with covered dishes. She sat one such dish, and a small, steaming mug at the small table near the window, and sketched a curtsy before bustling out the door, on her way to deliver the rest of the food. The scent of roasted meat caught Penelo's attention, and she lifted the silver cover on the tray, revealing a thick slice of roast beef covered in gravy and mushrooms, as well as a generous portion of vegetables and a crust of steaming white bread slathered with butter. The mug contained hot apple cider, thick with cinnamon and nutmeg. It had been a very long time since she'd had such a meal. For that matter, it had been an even longer time since she'd had a whole room to herself. The silence was equal parts welcome and heady as it was foreign and unnerving.

Alone in the room, with no one to judge her table manners, she sat down at the table and broke into the bread to sop up the rich gravy, taking bites that were far too large, but enjoying the warming heaviness of the meal. For once, it felt like she was consuming a meal that would stick with her, sustain her for more than an hour or so. The rain had lessened somewhat, coming down in a soothing patter rather than a beating flood, and the darkened sky had been in stuck in the twilight phase for hours. Halos of light wreathed the streetlamps, and she gazed blankly out the window, chewing absently, until light flooded the dimly-lit alleyway, and a lone figure emerged from the door beneath her window.

She rubbed at the condensation that fogged the glass to clear it, and froze, the mug of cider halfway to her lips. Balthier. Of _course_ it was Balthier; it was _always_ Balthier. She watched, enthralled, peering through the window as his retreating figure passed. He paused under the nearest streetlamp and rubbed the back of his neck, as though he could feel her eyes on him. He turned about abruptly, staring up at the lighted windows of the inn. Penelo jerked away, scooting back in her chair to remove herself from his line of sight. But she caught herself - she'd done nothing wrong - after all, it was hardly a crime to look out of a window. So why had his searching gaze made her feel like she'd been watching something she oughtn't to have been?

She chewed thoughtfully for a moment, absently brushing the crumbs of crusty bread from her shirt. Balthier clearly had business about town, or he'd not have left the inn. And he hadn't taken anyone with him, that much was certain - so he was about something that he didn't want anyone to know about. She tried to tell herself that she was piqued only because he was so fond of going off alone when he'd railed at her for the same action, but really, she was just...curious.

So she carefully replaced the silver cover on the dish, hung the towel over one of the bed posts, and opened her door slowly, so as not to make a sound that might alert the others of her journey, but she needn't have bothered. Though the door was heavy, its hinges were well-oiled, and it slid open smoothly and without so much as a tiny betraying squeak. After a quick peek down the hall to make sure no one was lingering nearby, she stepped lightly down the stairs, and ducked out the front door, keeping to the shadows in case anyone else happened to glance out of their own window.

The alley was long and narrow, and she followed the path Balthier had taken, which dead-ended into a wider, well-lit thoroughfare. In the wake of the storm, only a few people were out and about, and none of them paid any attention to her. Some distance ahead, she caught a glimpse of Balthier just as he rounded a corner. She quickened her pace, trailing him through the city, keeping just far enough behind to avoid drawing his attention. They had gone off the main thoroughfare once more, and Balthier was wending his way down side streets, for which Penelo was thankful, because it was far easier to stick to the shadows on streets with fewer streetlamps.

Balthier turned another corner, and Penelo scurried after him. But as she peered around the corner to see when she could safely follow, she felt a hand clamp around her wrist.

"Oi, love. What're you doin' in this part o' town?"

The rough voice sent a shiver down her spine. She'd heard many like it before, from the Archadian soldiers in Rabanastre, leaving taverns, their cruelty, so tightly leashed during their service hours, loosed and exposed after too many drinks. Predatory with their groping hands and lecherous smirks. She'd had far too many close calls before, and already she was considering ways to escape her present predicament.

The hand encircling her wrist was large and meaty, attached to a thick arm covered in dark hair. She followed it up to her captor's face, leering down at her with that familiar, toothy grin - perhaps lacking too many teeth to truly be called 'toothy.' True to type, he looked the sort of man that had gotten in - and won - many a bar fight. His broad, unshaven cheeks had the drunkard's flush she knew only too well. She'd be no match for him in a fair fight, of course. This sort of brute was used to overpowering with brute force, and the scars that lined his hands spoke all too clearly of his willingness - no, _eagerness_ - to resolve disputes with violence.

But Penelo had never been a fair fighter. Smaller, physically weaker, and without weapons in Rabanastre, she'd had to rely on wits and cunning. This man was stronger than she was, but she was willing to bet she was a good deal smarter than he.

"I have business here," she said carefully. "I'll thank you to leave me to it." She tugged at her hand, giving him the opportunity to end the confrontation before it began. But he merely tightened his grip, his stupid, broad grin widening to a ridiculous degree.

"Looked to me like you was followin' that swell," he said. "No need to go runnin' off now, we was just gettin' acquainted."

"No, we weren't." She looked the man dead in his beady little eyes, her chin tipped upwards stubbornly, a message that she was not afraid of him, uncowed by his menacing air.

Unaccustomed to being refused, to having his brutish authority challenged by his chosen victims, the wide grin slid into a threatening scowl.

"_I _saw we was," he growled. His grip tightened painfully, but Penelo didn't so much as flinch. "And if you know what's good fer you, you'll come along nice-like."

He jerked on her arm, and Penelo allowed herself to be pulled closer. Thinking he'd scared her into submission, the hateful grin emerged again. He took a step closer, reaching out with his free hand. But Penelo caught it and used his momentum to propel him closer, jerking her knee up, hard, right into his groin.

With a sharp cry, he bent double, releasing Penelo to clutch at his injured privates. Hands now freed, Penelo grabbed the back of his head, shoving it down as she again lifted her knee, smashing his face into it. She heard the crack of bones and his pitiful whimper. As she released him, he sunk to the ground, face down, moaning in pain. She neatly sidestepped, planted one dainty foot on his back, and grabbed his arm, twisting it painfully behind him. Rage and pain made him struggle, but he ceased when he realized that any further movements he made would wrench his arm from his socket.

"You bloody bitch," he howled, "you've broke my nose!"

Penelo shrugged. "You should have listened," she said. "You're lucky that's all I broke."

"You'll get yours," the words were a gutteral growl, imbued with all the hatred the bested bully could muster. "You'll have to let me up sometime. I'll get you. I will."

Penelo gave a painful jerk on his arm, and he yelped in agony. "I could still slice you from gullet to gut," she snarled savagely. "Don't tempt me."

A metallic click, the sound of gun being cocked, caught both Penelo and her attacker's attention. She jerked her head to the right, and froze. Balthier stood, leaning back against the wall, enshrouded by shadows, observing the exchange silently. His gun he held in one hand, trained straight at the man Penelo held fast to the ground.

"Oi, mate," the man called, "this bitch attacked me. Get her offa me, would ya? She was followin' you, I was doin' you a favor and all, keepin' her away." He was too stupid to realize that the mask of indifference Balthier wore like armor disguised his utter contempt for him. But Penelo sensed it, felt the raw fury rolling off of him in waves, and shuddered, because Balthier was unpredictable at the best of times.

Balthier shoved himself off the wall, loping casually across the deserted street, dropping to crouch beside the trapped man. He considered his weapon for a moment, then pressed it to the man's temple.

"This girl," he said, his voice a dangerous purr that prickled the hair on the back of Penelo's neck, "is under my protection." He increased the pressure of the weapon, watching as the man's beady little eyes widened in abject terror. "I believe you owe her an apology."

"S-sorry!" the man gasped. "I didn't know she was with you, mate. Hand to gods, I didn't. Never woulda touched her if I knew!"

"Apologize to_ her_," Balthier said, affecting a bored expression.

"Cor! What for, then?" The confusion in the man's voice scraped across Penelo's raw nerves. But Penelo was not the only one who'd been angered by it, for Balthier again cruelly jabbed the man with his weapon. And Penelo no longer believed he was merely threatening the man, because the expression on his face bespoke not only his willingness to shoot him, but how very much he would _enjoy_ doing so.

"Balthier, don't -"

He shot her a quelling glance. She subsided into silence immediately, and knew, simply from that look, that she, too, would be getting a lecture all her own.

"You've accosted an unwilling girl. And as much as I would prefer to put you down like the rabid animal you are, I believe the lady would prefer it if I were to offer you a second chance. _Not_," he said harshly, "that _I_ believe you deserve one. But blood is so very difficult to remove from one's clothing, you know. So apologize to the lady for forcing your unwanted attentions on her. And you had better make _me_ believe it, or I'll simply have to buy a new shirt."

Finally sensing the seriousness of the predicament, the man dissolved into blubbering apologies, swearing he would never so much as look at another woman with ill intent again. After a long moment's silence, considering the veracity of the man's claims, Balthier finally tucked his weapon back into its holster and rose. He offered his hand to Penelo, who took it with her free one, stepping away from the man as she released her hold on his arm. Finally free of the painful hold, the man scrambled to his feet and backed away from them, fleeing as fast as he could into the darkness.

Penelo tried to shake her hand free, but Balthier held it fast, the iron strength of his fingers manacling hers. Without so much as a glance at her, he began striding away, dragging her along in his wake, keeping to the dimly lit alleyways. She followed him silently for a few minutes, before the desire to attempt to soothe his dark temper won out.

"Balthier -"

"Not a word, Penelo." His icy tone was biting, dark and dangerous.

She tried again. "But -"

"_Penelo. Shut. Up._"

"I only wanted -"

He stopped abruptly, shoving her back against a wall, pinning her there with his hands and his livid gaze.

"Will you _never_ simply do as instructed?" he hissed furiously. "For the gods' sake, you can't go more than a few days without getting into trouble, can you? What the hell were you thinking, following me, alone in a strange city? Oh, yes, I knew you were there, you bloody idiot. I could _feel_ you watching me. And then to get yourself tangled up with that great buffoon, all because you were too busy sneaking after me to pay attention -"

"I had it well in hand!" she snapped back. "I've handled his like before!"

And really, that was the core of Balthier's rage - that she had clearly been cornered by men like that frequently enough to know how to handle them, that she had not actually _needed_ him to rescue her, that she had had reason to learn to defend herself because she had lacked for protection. That he had realized she had no longer been following him and had searched her out only to discover that she had already taken care of the problem. That, had anything gone wrong, he might not have discovered her soon enough to save her. That the mere thought of such a happenstance had jerked his heart into his throat, made his fists clench with rage and his stomach clench with fear. That just now he had wanted to kill a man, desperately wanted to plug a bullet into his brain, simply because he had had the audacity to lay a hand on Penelo.

The stubborn tilt of her chin incensed him, made blood pound in his head. She was now as furious as he was, and, perversely, it made him want to laugh. But instead, he hauled her up against the wall, lifting her, pinning her against it with the length of his body, and she gasped, clutching at his shoulders as her feet were no longer firmly planted on the ground.

She seemed to sense his intent, blue eyes thickly fringed with black lashes going wide, then half-shuttered. Her pink lips formed a little 'o' of surprise, then her teeth worried at her lower lip nervously. His right hand grabbed her leg, lifting it to wrap around his waist, and her other leg followed suit. Her elbows were locked, holding him at a distance.

"I could scream."

A harsh chuckle. "You won't." His left hand buried itself in the silky softness of her hair, tugging her head back, arching her neck. Her arms trembled, then sagged, the token resistance faded as if it had never been.

As he touched his lips to her throat, she jerked in his arms as though he'd seared her skin. She smelled like rain, and he felt her pulse jump and flutter wildly beneath his searching mouth. Her fingers curled, nails scraping across the fabric of his shirt, digging into his shoulders, but the pressure was good, right. She _should_ be clinging to him. Perhaps he had started this in anger, in the heat of rage and fear, but he found himself unwilling to betray the fragile trust she had placed in him by being rough with her. Instead, he traced the line of her jaw, circled the delicate shell of her ear, listened to her ragged breathing.

Her eyes were closed, sooty lashes fanning flushed cheeks. His hand withdrew from her hair, cupped her cheek, tilted her face upwards. He bent again, lips brushing hers, a gentle, teasing caress. Her lips parted, breath escaping on a sigh, and he pressed his advantage, fitting his lips over hers. The fingers that had clutched at his shoulders went lax, lifted, wrapped around him. He made an approving sound in his throat as he felt one arm encircle his neck, the other hand sift through the hair at the nape of his neck, nails raking through it gently.

She didn't know how to kiss, probably she'd dropped anyone who'd ever tried as efficiently as she'd felled her attacker earlier in the evening. But she was an apt student, mimicking his actions, meeting the first forays of his tongue with curiosity rather than reticence, indicating her own approval with a sigh, or an indrawn breath, or tiny shudders that sent tingles down his own spine. She tasted sweet, clean and fresh, and she threw herself so headlong into the kiss that his head spun with the heady sensations she aroused.

She drew back only when he pressed closer, letting her feel his body's reaction. She broke away, gasping, her eyes once again wide and wary, and he mourned the loss of the innocent passion she had so generously bestowed upon him.

Slowly he released her, setting her gently on her feet, perversely pleased that she clung a moment, as though she needed the time to steady the trembling of her legs.

"You could have had me on the ground just as easily as you did that poor bastard earlier," he said.

"Yes," she said, still shaken.

"Then why didn't you?"

"I...I don't know." She backed away a step, feeling awkward and uncertain.

He made a rough sound in his throat, dragging his fingers through his hair. "Next time, I think you'd better."


	8. Eighth Watch

The tension was so thick between them that Penelo felt that had she had tried to violate the respectable distance Balthier kept between them as they walked back to the inn, she might've been bounced off like a ball against a wall. It appeared to be only empty air, but it might as well have been three feet of solid steel.

She hadn't managed to banish the scarlet flush from her cheeks for more than a few seconds at a time, because every time she glanced over at Balthier it came raging back. What had possessed her? For that matter, what had possessed _him_? By the firm set of his jaw, and by the way he studiously avoided so much as a stray glance in her direction, she was fairly certain he was wondering much the same thing.

"What were you doing in town?" She asked, but her voice managed to tremble over the words, high and unsteady. Again the flush rolled back in full force.

He did not look at her, and it was several seconds before he deigned to answer, during which time Penelo had once again drawn back into the relative safety of silence.

"Posting a letter," he said finally, and his voice was bored, bland, disinterested. Penelo envied him his composure.

As she had never had occasion to either mail or receive any letters, somehow it had never occurred to her that he might have someone with which he wished to correspond. And that he would choose to do so now, when it was of utmost importance that they keep their movements and location a secret, utterly baffled her.

"A letter? To whom? A...friend of yours?" This time her voice did not quaver, and she inwardly congratulated herself.

"Sky pirates do not have _friends_," he said, hissing the word as if it were a curse.

"That's ridiculous," she chided, as they crossed into the side street on which their inn was located. "Even if you don't count us among them, Fran is your friend."

"Fran is my companion," he replied easily. "My partner. It suits our purposes to travel together, and I trust her with my life. But I have no need for friends. I don't care for people insinuating themselves into my life. I prefer to remain free of complications and intimate relationships." He eased the door of the inn open silently, lowering his voice so as to not be overheard. "In the future, do remember that."

Then he was gone, leaving her at the foot of the stairs, before she could muster the courage to call him out on the lie.

And it wasn't until later, when she was sinking into the steaming bathwater that had been delivered up to her room that she realized he had neatly evaded her questions, and to whom he had written was still very much a mystery.

* * *

Through the wall separating their rooms, Balthier had heard the maid knocking on Penelo's door, had heard buckets of water splash noisily into the copper washtub, repeating the procedure she'd performed for Balthier only ten minutes prior. Next she would direct Penelo behind the privacy screen that surrounded the tub so that Penelo could hand over her clothing for cleaning and drying.

He imagined Penelo stripping off her wet clothing, stepping into the tub, sinking down into the heated water, her skin pinkening, her fair hair darkening to liquid gold. He imagined her sighing, stretching her legs over the edge of the tub, wispy curls of steam rising around her, limbs lax as the heat soaked into her muscles. He imagined the water lapping over soft curves, filmy soap bubbles lovingly clinging and turning silky skin slick and slippery. He imagined himself stroking back her sodden hair, fingers lingering caressingly at the nape of her neck, massaging away the tension that lingered. He imagined her, languid and relaxing into his soothing hands. In this fantasy, she had been waiting for him, expecting him. She arched her back, pressing into his touch, welcoming the sensation of his hands on her. In this fantasy, they were silent, as if they had been lovers for a long, long time, and words were no longer necessary between them. As if meaning could be conveyed entirely through the brush of his fingertips across her cheek, the tilting of her head as she exposed more of her skin for his exploration. As if their communion surpassed physical intimacy and approached the spiritual.

_No._ Somehow his imagination had gotten the better of him. He did not want that. He had never wanted that. Moreover, he could never have that, even _did _he so desire it. Which he absolutely did not. At all. With anyone.

He sloshed water over his face, attempting to banish the sensuous images that arose behind his closed eyes. When that failed, he opened his eyes, surveying the room in a futile attempt to forget them, to replace the forbidden and exciting with the mundane and ordinary, rubbing the scented soap between his hands and scrubbing them furiously through his hair. In his carelessness, the foamy lather slipped down his forehead, into his eyes, stinging. He cursed, splashed his face again, rinsed his hair, scowled. Sniffed. Bloody lavender. What self-respecting pirate wanted to go around smelling of a blasted flower garden?

But Penelo had likely gotten soap of the same scent, and it would suit her, delicate and floral. Something at once earthy and ethereal. In the world, but not of it, as if existing on a higher plane, flirting only rarely with the lower world occupied by mere mortals. She was a walking, breathing contradiction. So simple in her goals, so complex in her motives. She fascinated because he could not read her, could not place her neatly into this category or that, because she so readily defied categorization, because her desires were so pure and simple, because she appeared so delicate and fragile, but ran the gamut between selfless and ruthless. Because she always meted out kindness when it was due and justice when it was necessary. Because she was vicious when cornered, but forgiving of slights against her. Because she saw the best of what he might have been, and somehow did not find him lacking despite what he had instead become.

_That_ was why he had kissed her, he realized. Not because she was convenient, or even because she was pretty. It was because of her easy acceptance of all that he was along with all he was not and could never be. It was because she had no interest in changing him, no plan to mould him into her own creation, no scheme to trim away his faults or sand off his rough edges.

Even Fran had shaped him, tethered him, tamed him, tempered his all-encompassing rage into cool detachment. Fran had saved him from himself, but she had also, as if he were a seedling, metaphorically tied him to stakes, training him in the direction she wished him to grow, pruning away the bits she deemed unnecessary. Penelo existed not to whittle away the unwanted pieces, to mask the ugliness, but to complement, to fill the empty spaces, lending her grace and gentility in generous counterbalance.

She was inquisitive; she did not do it to aggravate, he knew, but to understand. If he had told her he had written to his father, he knew there would be no judgment. And if he had confessed the sins of his past, the sins he planned still to commit, she would sit silently and listen. Just listen. But it was enough that he judged himself and found himself wanting. He would not burden her with his past. He could not provide her with yet another tie to bind him. Already he chomped at the bit, already she held more ties than she knew. And for both of their sakes, he needed to keep it that way.

* * *

Penelo had not slept well. She supposed years of sleeping on makeshift pallets in Lowtown with the other street children had ruined her for a genteel life. The silence had been deafening, she had sunk into the plush mattress to the point of immobility and felt suffocated by the thick, downy coverlet. And she had been plagued by dreams that did not bear thinking of in the cold light of day. Dreams that made her squirm and flush in remembrance, that had jolted her awake, breathless and sweating, shocked at their indecency.

She had finally given up the futile undertaking of sleep at dawn, risen to splash her flushed face with water, and found her clothing neatly folded and waiting for her. The maid must've already made her morning rounds, because the fire was freshly stoked and a light breakfast of flaky pastries, jam, and tea was waiting for her at the table.

She lingered in the room a while, managing a few bites of her breakfast, certain that she would be the only one up so early, as surely the rest of them would be making the most of what might be their last night spent in such luxurious accomodations. Their goal loomed closer, and they were soon to enter enemy territory, which necessitated the utmost discretion. No taverns or inns from here on out would be considered safe enough to pass the night within.

At last the sun had risen up over the roofs of neighboring buildings, and Penelo knew it would soon be time to meet the others downstairs. She gathered up the last of her belongings and shoved them into her bag, taking one last longing look at the room as she opened the door. She regretted that she had been unable to fully enjoy her brief stay.

The door next to hers opened and Balthier stepped out into the hallway just as she did. At once, and to her indescribable embarrassment, her face flooded with color. She froze, unprepared to face him.

His face revealed nothing; he regarded her with disinterest, as if they had only a passing acquaintance. Her embarrassment gave way to shame, then self-loathing. She was an idiot to let their previous encounter weigh on her as it did; a fool to be so affected by it, because he clearly had not been. He had probably had scores of women throw themselves at him, and if she were wise, she would not be counted among them. To infer meaning into what had passed between them would be a very grave mistake.

She rallied, collected the tatters of her pride, her high color fading, straightening her shoulders resolutely. She looked him in the eye, gave a brief, dismissive nod, and turned her back on him to head down the stairs.

Balthier was both amused and impressed. Her face had shown a riot of emotions, for in her youth she did not yet understand the value of concealing one's thoughts, but she had grown up a bit in a scant few seconds, composed herself before his very eyes, and regained her former confidence. Now he need not fear that the truth would reveal itself on her face, nor risk censure from the rest of their party. Provided she could maintain her nonchalant facade, no one would be the wiser.

As he watched her retreat steadily down the stairs, he arched a brow and murmured, "_Bravo_, dear girl."

* * *

In the downstairs common room, Penelo found Ashe and Basch already waiting. Ashe sipped tea with a careless grace that Penelo was certain she could never have managed, and Basch stood guard near the door, ensuring their privacy. Penelo took a seat on the plush sofa near the window. Balthier appeared moments later, and this time she neither blushed nor faltered at the sight of him. She turned her attention to the window instead, giving the illusion of being interested in the local scenery.

Fran entered moments later; Vaan brought up the rear, as Penelo had expected, looking displeased. Penelo surmised that Fran had likely had something to do with getting Vaan, who had never been an early riser, out of bed and downstairs in a fairly timely manner.

Basch stuck his head out into the hall, and, satisfied that no one lurked nearby, closed the door and latched it. He spoke in low tones, and the rest of the party took their cue from him.

"We're going via the Aerodrome," he said.

"Has two years in that dungeon addled your wits?" Balthier said incredulously. "We want to remain _inconspicuous_."

"And we will," said Ashe, placidly, setting down her tea cup. She folded her hands in her lap. "We shall travel in pairs so as not to draw unnecessary attention to ourselves. We might attract suspicion should we travel as a group, but not if we split ourselves into smaller groups. So many people pass through the Aerodrome every day, I suspect we will be highly unmemorable. Furthermore, no one will expect us to travel by airship. It will cut down our journey significantly, and give us the element of surprise. The sooner we make Archades, the less prepared Vayne shall be."

Fran indicated her approval with a nod. "There is merit to such a coup," she acknowledged. "Better to strike unexpected before the enemy can rally their defenses."

"Never been on an airship before," Vaan put in. "Sounds like it'll be fun."

Penelo had never been on one either, but she couldn't rightly say she was looking forward to it. She had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach, as if some information was being withheld, a vague sense of unease that she could not shake.

"Well," Basch said, addressing Balthier. "Will we find your face gracing a Wanted poster in the Aerodrome? Currently, your notoriety is our biggest risk, as the princess is still widely thought to be dead."

Balthier sighed, pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose. "No," he said finally. "I am not infamous in Balfonheim. Nor will my presence present a problem in Archades, due to...certain circumstances." He did not elaborate. Nor did Basch press for an answer, but the two men stared one another down, posturing silently for supremacy, authority.

Ashe rose, dissolving the crackling air of discord by clearing her throat gently. "If we are all in agreement, I suggest we set out at once. We will take separate flights, at half hour intervals, and reconvene in Archades. Balthier, as you are familiar with Archades, would you please suggest a meeting place?"

Balthier hesitated briefly. Finally he said, "Draklor Laboratory." Ashe's eyebrows rose in silent inquiry. Tightly, he continued, "We will have business there, I assure you." He stalked over to a desk in the corner of the room, rifled through a few drawers and withdrew paper, pen, and ink. He spent a moment, drawing a hasty map of the city and the path from the Aerodrome to Draklor Laboratory, then handed it over to Basch.

"It is accurate to the best of my memory," Balthier said. "It has been many years since I was last in Archades."

Basch studied the map for a moment, then passed it off to Ashe, who briefly examined it, then retired to the desk to sit and copy it. Basch withdrew a pouch from his traveling bag and counted several gold coins into his palm before passing the gil over to Balthier.

"That should pay for your travel and food along the way," he said.

Balthier slung his own bag over his shoulder. "Fran, let's be off," he said.

"No," Ashe said. She rose, tapping the edges of the sheaf of papers against the desk to straighten them into a neat pile. "You cannot travel with Fran; the two of you are too well known together. I will not be traveling with Basch for the same reason." She pursed her lips, as if considering the problem. But Balthier's stomach clenched and he knew that she had already decided; she was merely enjoying the thought of him squirming like a worm on a hook. He waited for the death knell, the felling blow. And it came, cheerful and decisive.

"You'll take Penelo."


End file.
